


Memories

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Making Love, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: When the dawn comesTonight will be a memory tooAnd a new day will begin(from the musical "Cats")
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

“Good night, George.”

“Good night, Mr Holmes. See you in the morning.”

“Yes.” Mycroft gives his driver a forced smile and gets out of the car, his hand clamped around his umbrella, the suitcase under his arm.

When the black car has driven off, his shoulders slump. What a day. The second day in hell. And tomorrow everything will return to the new normal, the Sherlock-knows-his-sister-normal.

He walks up to his house with slow, heavy steps. He has gone through inquisition the entire day. His failures regarding the containment of his sister, the murders that happened the night before – understandably, his superiors were not amused. And the weight of the guilt will not disappear anytime soon. Rationally, he knows he is not responsible for everything that happened. He had expected people to do as they’d been told. But he has messed it up big time as well, from the moment he allowed his sister to meet his brother’s nemesis. He should have known it would lead to nothing good. And he did. And then, years later, it almost cost his little brother's life and if this had happened, it would have cost his own as well.

He doesn’t want to think about this now. He doesn’t want to think at all. All he wants is a glass of brandy, a hot bath and some sleep.

And then he sees his alarm is off and he knows he won’t get any of these.

*****

He finds Sherlock in the living room, sitting in a chair next to the window, a glass in his hand. He has not bothered to make light.

“Don’t,” he says when Mycroft reaches for the light switch. “Your glass in on the table.”

Mycroft doesn’t say he can’t see that well in the dark. He knows this room inside out, and he finds the glass without much effort. “Thank you.” He takes a sip. Brandy indeed.

“Long day,” Sherlock states. His voice sounds calm but somehow raspy. Foreign.

“Yes. Had it coming.”

“Mm. Sit down.”

Mycroft doesn’t protest against being bossed around in his own house. He lets himself drop into his armchair. “I will have to inform our parents about Eurus,” he says when Sherlock stays silent.

“I guess you will. I’d suggest you don’t tell them on the phone.”

Mycroft would have preferred this as he knows he has their wrath coming as well. But he knows Sherlock is right. “I will ask them to come to my office.”

“Let me know when.”

Mycroft is surprised. Sherlock wants to be there? “Fine,” he says and drinks.

He can hear Sherlock breathing heavily. “I remember Redbeard now,” he finally says. “It’s coming all back.”

Mycroft can feel his belly tighten. He feels nauseous. He tells himself this is stupid. Sherlock is talking about childhood memories. Nothing else.

“I remember, Mycroft,” Sherlock shatters his hopes. “I remember that night when I was sixteen…”

“Please. Don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t talk about it...”

“You’re sorry?”

He can see Sherlock shaking his head. It’s too dark to see his expression. But what else than disgust and embarrassment should his face show? “Very,” he whispers. He downs the rest of the alcohol and sets the glass on the floor next to his chair.

“I wonder why. _I_ should be sorry. It was me who did it.”

“I let you...”

Sherlock huffs. “I didn’t give you any choice.”

“You were high...”

“Yes. My convenient excuse for most of the things I messed up in my life. How could I have forgotten?” Sherlock sounds desperate now, and Mycroft can’t endure it.

“Because you were high. And it had been your way of coping since Victor disappeared. And now please – forget it again.”

Has Sherlock even heard him? “I hurt you,” he rumbles.

“Hardly.” He doesn’t want to talk about it. Or think about it. Not that he could have forgotten. Ever.

“How did you endure my face afterwards?”

“Sherlock, don’t. It’s okay.”

“No. It is not! How can you be so calm about it?”

“Because you did nothing I didn’t want!” Mycroft blurts, and then groans, hiding his face in his hands.

Sherlock keeps silent for at least two minutes. No time span has ever felt so long.

It’s the truth. The truth he has never wanted his brother to know.

Flashes of this night, roughly twenty years ago, appear in his mind and he knows Sherlock is seeing them, too.

_He had not slept. Sherlock was still not at home. His parents had asked him to come and he had. He had searched for Sherlock in every drug den he knew without spotting him. Eventually he had told his parents to go to bed as there was nothing they can do._

_He was sitting in his room. It was hot; his clothes were sticking to his body even though he had just taken another shower. He was worried to bits. It felt wrong to sit here and wait. But he had no idea where else to go._

_And then he heard the front door, heavy steps on the stairs. No voices – the parents had not woken up._

_He opened his door and saw his pale-faced little brother, his curls damp, his eyes unsteady. “Sherlock… Why do you...” He didn’t get any further. Sherlock, his pupils small, his eyes narrowed, pushed him into his room and followed, closing the door with his heel._

“I was so angry,” Sherlock whispers. “You looked at me as if you despised me.”

“I never did,” Mycroft protests.

“But you should have.” Sherlock gets up and starts pacing the room. “I grabbed you… I…”

_Mycroft was frozen in shock when Sherlock ripped his clothes off. “What are you doing...” he protested but he didn’t fight him. He was too shaken to fight. He was too close to getting what he had longed for._

“ _Shut up.”_

_A hand, cold and soft and strong, grabbed his cock and Mycroft could feel it filling out. How many times had he fantasised about Sherlock doing this for him over the past year or more? Never in his life would he have expected it would actually happen. And certainly not like this…_

“It was always in the back of my mind even though I couldn't grasp it...” Sherlock says hoarsely, stopping in front of his chair. “The reason why I could never imagine being with someone.”

It hurts. He doesn’t show it. “Now you can move on.”

“You never did. You never had anyone.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Where would have been the point?” He knows he is saying too much. He is glad he has not made light. There are words that can only be said in the dark.

_It was painful. It was wonderful. It burnt. It set his body on fire. Fingernails were digging into his sides. A weight was pressing him down. A lithe body but so strong, hammering into him relentlessly. It was his first time. It was Sherlock's first time. He knew there would never be someone else for him._

_He came with Sherlock fucking him, chafing him. Sherlock bit into his neck when he spilled inside him. The traces of his teeth would be visible for a week and Mycroft would stare at them in the mirror again and again._

_It was bliss. It was horrible. He was holding his little brother when Sherlock had collapsed on him. His hands were rubbing his back, up and down, Sherlock clinging to him, panting hard._

“You brought me into my room.”

Mycroft nods. “You could walk but you were half asleep.” He dragged him, more or less.

_He put him into his bed, stuffing the blanket tight around him. He refreshed himself. There was no blood on the cloth but he felt sore. He didn’t want to shower. He could still smell Sherlock's sweat on him. He took it to bed with him._

_In the morning he told his parents he had to leave before Sherlock woke up._

_They never mentioned it. Sherlock had forgotten. Mycroft would never forget._

“You felt guilty?” Sherlock asks. “Why the hell? You did nothing wrong.”

“What I felt for you was wrong. And I hardly discouraged you.”

“What you _felt_...”

Would it make sense to say it’s all past? That his feelings have long changed? Or simply withered and died? Sherlock will know it’s a lie.

He is tired of lying to him. “What I feel.” He doesn’t even feel embarrassed. Sentiment. Perhaps it really gets everyone in the end.

Sherlock says nothing for a long while. “I saw it last night. Your shields were gone.”

It is true. Thinking that he was about to die has made him vulnerable. He has shown Sherlock how much he means to him. And obviously this has brought the memory back.

“Please, Sherlock. Just forget about it now. It’s...”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “This makes no sense.”

“I want to make it better.”

“What? Just don't think about it anymore. Delete it.” He feels desperate. He loves Sherlock. Always has. And the memory of this night, as guilt-ridden as it is – because he is the older brother; he shouldn’t have taken advantage of Sherlock's state – is bittersweet. But Sherlock doesn’t love him. He did this, he took him out of frustration, of hurt maybe. In any way it’s a lifetime ago. Sherlock doesn’t owe him anything.

“You never deleted it,” Sherlock whispers.

“No.” Why would he? It was wrong and he shouldn’t have let it happened. But he did and he bloody loved it, who does he want to fool? And so he has allowed himself to think about it whenever… Whenever things have been exceptionally difficult.

“Let me make it better. I need it.” Sherlock bends down to him. “Give me this night to make it better.”

And then? They can forget it both? As if this would work. Of course he will never forget. And he can’t accept this invitation for doing the wrong thing again.

He feels exhausted. “Go home to John, Sherlock. Just...” And then he gets shut up with a clumsy, forceful, sweet, irresistible kiss.

*****

It’s the kiss that gets him. That shuts up the voice in his head, which was about to scream about guilt and morals and damaging his little brother.

There were no kisses last time. Kisses need sentiment. Affection. And this is what he can’t deny, can’t resist.

While he allows himself to being explored, having his mouth plundered, Sherlock's hands holding his head in place even though he doesn’t make an attempt at backing away, he thinks of all the moments over the past years that might have led to this. Starting with handling the Moriarty affair (and how ironic that he had made this man’s threats possible in the first place by allowing him the contact with Eurus), getting closer during the time Sherlock was away – of course this could only happen with thousands kilometres of distance between them. They were in touch, frequently. Devoid of Doctor Watson’s support, Sherlock did reach out to him. And Mycroft, missing him, did his best to ground him. After his return, things were easier between them. Not without resentments. But better than they’d been for a long time.

And these kisses… He tells himself they don’t mean so much to Sherlock. This is little brother trying to make up for a failure from such a long time ago, which has to feel very present to him as he has only just remembered it. Mycroft never thought he had to. He has always just blamed himself for what happened between them. But he doesn’t find it in himself to reject him. It’s just this night and Mycroft doesn’t want to think what will be tomorrow. Right now, he doesn’t care. They have survived Sherrinford, and Mycroft knows this drama is a part of his brother’s determination to do this, and it tells him Sherlock doesn’t blame him, and it's like a redemption, as undeserved as it might be, that means a lot to him.

And when Sherlock breaks the kiss and takes his hand to pull him up, he follows him. He knows he would follow him everywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing next to his generous bed, Mycroft undresses himself this time. His fingers are shaking when he opens his shirt buttons after slipping out of his waistcoat.

He can see Sherlock well enough even though they haven’t made light as the moon shines through the large window opposite of the bed. His brother efficiently undresses, no hint of hesitation in his movements. He has obviously thought about this thoroughly. He has made a deliberate decision. No drugs this time. No excuses. He does it because he wants to. And Mycroft would lie if he said he doesn’t.

They are still keeping a distance when they are both naked. Mycroft stands still, watching his brother. Eventually Sherlock makes the first step and then Mycroft is in his arms, and his hands reverently touch Sherlock's sides, feeling his smooth, soft skin.

He knows there are scars. Plenty of them. The worst one is in his chest, where a woman Mycroft hates has almost killed him with a shot. On his back the remains of the torture in Serbia. His brother has gone through hell. He had not been able to protect him. Sherlock has never wanted him to.

They kiss again, without hurry but with an increasing urge they both seem to feel. The kisses start sloppy, then they get more forceful, passionate. Mycroft is hard, and he can feel Sherlock's erection poking against his groin.

Is it wrong? Objectively spoken, of course it is. Morals, laws and society say it is. He has felt guilty for wanting this for as long as he can remember. But Mycroft can’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sherlock was not much more than a boy last time. He is no longer this drugged-out, rebellious boy. He is a man and he knows his own mind. And he wants to do this, with him.

He ends up on his back, spread out on his bed, with Sherlock covering his body with his own. But there is no anger this time, no overpowering. Sherlock straddles him and bends his head to kiss him on the lips, then on the cheek, the chin, the neck.

He stupidly thought Sherlock hadn’t been very much affected by the events in Sherrinford. Obviously, this was wrong. He can’t imagine Sherlock being like this without it, without his emotions having been played with like this. It makes him find some strange peace with his own failures and even Eurus’ horrific actions. He knows she is responsible for them but unable to understand them. Perhaps Sherlock can do something for her. The thought brings another wave of guilt – would these people still be alive if he had told Sherlock about her, encouraged him to make contact with her? Because in the end she did all this to bond with him, in her own weird way. Sherlock is all she has ever cared about. At least in this they are similar...

Sherlock raises his head. “Don’t, Mycroft. Don’t blame yourself for everything. We do what we do. We have our reasons and make our decisions and it can’t be undone. All we can do is go on and make our peace with it.”

It’s a simple truth and the unknown compassion in Sherlock's voice makes his heart clench. He knows Sherlock has his own share of guilt to carry around. He nods and Sherlock kisses him on the lips again. Mycroft's arms are tightly wrapped around his brother now; he can feel the scarred skin and strokes over it. “My poor, poor boy,” he whispers, and in the next moment he fears that it will put Sherlock off, upset him.

But Sherlock smiles at him, his look heavy with a vast mixture of sentiments, and they kiss again. Mycroft dies for rolling Sherlock onto his back and covering him in kisses, exploring his body, but he knows Sherlock has other plans. And then his hands are gently pinned above his head and Sherlock starts nibbling at his neck and moves southwards to lick and gently pull at his sensitive nipples with his teeth. When he has to let Mycroft go in order to lick and kiss his way along his body, Mycroft leaves his arms in place, knowing Sherlock wants him to.

He is ticklish and winces when Sherlock licks the underside of his upper arms. Sherlock looks up and smiles and the sentiment that overwhelms Mycroft at this sweet, genuine smile is almost painful. Sherlock looks at him, gazes at him, for almost half a minute before he resumes his task of taking him apart, and Mycroft knows he has seen it all – his desperate love for his sibling, his need, his want, and somehow it is fine. He knows Sherlock will not use it against him, whatever will happen when this night is over.

In the morning he will have to go to work, probably answer more angry questions, deal with Eurus’ crimes, but right now this seems ages away. He is happy. Happy for another memory that’s made, a memory he will never be ashamed of thinking of.

*****

The feeling is too much. He sighs, almost in pain, trying to control himself.

“Just let go, brother. You’ve got nothing to prove to me,” Sherlock soothes him, his hand wrapped around Mycroft's achingly stiff penis, stroking up and down lazily.

A few seconds ago his lips are wrapped around this organ, sucking him carefully, experimentally, and Mycroft almost comes right away. Sherlock's lips are heaven. It already feels divine to be kissed by them but this… But Mycroft doesn’t want to come like this. Doesn’t want to spill into his brother’s mouth, as he fears the inevitable gagging and spluttering will destroy this moment. And… “If you want to do what we did last time, don’t let me come before.”

Sherlock nods. “All right. This time I’ve come with something to ease my way.”

There is a heavy tone of guilt in his voice and Mycroft smiles. “Don’t think about that. It was not bad.”

In fact he embraced the feeling of being fucked dry, dry apart from Sherlock's rich pre-seminal fluid. He felt guilty about letting it happen and it appeared to be the right punishment for him wanting it – he still enjoyed it but not painlessly.

He does own some lubricant now, too. And toys. He has never let another man fuck him but he has pleasured himself, thinking of this night, less rough, less stinging.

He lets Sherlock get the small bottle from his own pocket, watches him coating his hand with appealingly smelling fluid, and grabs for a pillow to stuff under his bottom. He could suggest being on all fours; it would be easier for both of them. But he knows Sherlock wants it to happen like last time, and he wants it as well. He needs to watch Sherlock's face. He wants to kiss him while it’s happening. He wants to get lost in his eyes.

He gets opened up by cautious long fingers, being constantly watched for any sign of displeasure by those incredible eyes. There are none. He enjoys being touched so intimately and he only now really understands how much he has craved it ever since he was opened up so roughly all those years ago.

When Sherlock slides into him now, he is more than ready. He slings his legs around Sherlock's waist to urge him on and Sherlock complies, a low chuckle in his throat. Mycroft can feel his relief – it has really pained him to have allegedly violated him. He reaches up to cup Sherlock's cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over the sharp cheekbones, his smile telling him they are good, better than good, actually. A tiny hope has dared rise in his heart – the hope that this will not be the only new memory they will make. But he won’t speak it out; it will be Sherlock's turn to decide if he wants more than this night.

For now, Mycroft is happy to have this, to feel Sherlock sliding deep into him, stimulating this hidden spot in him more and more with every deep thrust. It feels wonderful, infatuating, irresistible, addictive.

They are both quiet, only their harsh breathing and the quiet creaking of the mattress break the silence of the room. Sherlock’s eyes are closed half of the time; the other half he is gazing into Mycroft's eyes, making sure he is doing good, is enjoying himself. Mycroft feels pride to make his gorgeous little brother feel like he does; the arousal is evident in every fluttering of his eyelids, in every licking of his lips, in every fierce kiss he plants on Mycroft's lips.

When he can feel his brother getting close to climaxing, he grabs the base of his cock, which is trapped between their entangled bodies, with one hand, and uses the other one to gently massage Sherlock's hole. Sherlock gasps in surprise and hammers into him harder than before, chasing his orgasm, but Mycroft wins the race, the unspoken competition, spilling against Sherlock’s stomach and all over himself, moments before he can feel hot spurts of seed erupting deep inside him, and he feels the weird urge to keep the semen inside him as long as possible.

So when Sherlock proceeds to pull his still half-hard cock out of him, Mycroft cups his arse cheeks with both hands and holds him in place. Sherlock understands and smiles, blowing a stray curl out of his face, and carefully lowers himself onto his body, still buried inside him.

They don’t speak for a long while, Mycroft's hands sliding up and down his brother’s back. Sherlock kisses his cheek every few seconds, otherwise he does not move.

“I can’t stay overnight,” he says then, and Mycroft's heart makes a little jump at the regret in his voice.

“That’s okay.” He knows Sherlock is staying with John and his daughter for as long as his flat is not habitable. John will be worried if he doesn’t come back, especially after all that happened the night before. The doctor is not to be told about this. Nobody is. Even though ‘this’ is not defined by now. “Thank you,” he whispers eventually. “This will be a truly lovely memory.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, sounding insecure. And then he asks what Mycroft has hoped for. “Can we do some more?”

“If you want this.” Mycroft's heart is hammering with gratitude. He strokes his brother’s damp curls.

“I do. And you?”

“Of course I do. Come back in the evening?”

Sherlock smiles. “Yes. I suppose we will see each other before though.”

It takes him a moment to understand what he means. Of course… The parents must be told about Eurus. They will want to see her. Which makes no sense. She doesn’t talk. And he doubts very much she cares about the older Holmeses in the least. It will be a nasty scene to explain it all to them. But Sherlock will be there to support him. “I would be grateful if you joined me when I talk to them.”

“I will for sure. And later… I think I would be amenable to getting explored by you.”

Mycroft squeezes him tight. “I will do this with pleasure.” The thought of kissing Sherlock's body all over, of invading him, taking his anal virginity, is breathtaking.

“We’ll make all the memories in the world,” Sherlock states, sounding decidedly pleased.

“Yes. And when we are through with them, we’ll start all over again.”

Sherlock raises his head and looks at him, and Mycroft can see the deep affection in his eyes. He doesn’t speak it out but he doesn’t have to. “I’ll come back as long as you want me to,” he does say and then he kisses him, and Mycroft just feels blessed by being with the only man he’s ever wanted – his beautiful baby brother.

The End

  
  



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